


Fuschias

by VinWrit



Series: The Upper Slaughter Gardening Society. [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Memories, break-ins, drunken conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:38:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinWrit/pseuds/VinWrit
Summary: Five years after their initial encounter, a familiar demon shows up in Susan’s kitchen. And he seems to be drunk.





	Fuschias

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Socks and their blog, which encouraged me to write this sooner than planned.

Susan woke in the middle of the night to the sound of running water. This was strange, because she was sure she’d turned off all the taps in the house. 

 

She checked the time; six past one in the morning; smiling at her phone’s lock-screen, which was a photo of her girlfriend. And then, with a sigh of annoyance, she sat upright and disentangled her legs from the mess of bedsheets and quilts she was ensnared in. 

 

Tiptoeing downstairs, she snatched a steak knife from the dining table and tucked it into the sleeve of her polka-dot pyjamas, before sneaking into the kitchen, her heart in her throat. 

 

Peering round the door, she could see a tall, skinny, decidedly male figure standing near her sink, a half-full glass of water in their hand. In the light of the waning moon she could see red hair, glimmering coppery and brutally scarlet in the gloom. 

 

“I have a knife!” Susan cried, holding the aforementioned weapon out like a sabre. 

 

He turned, slowly, and Susan frowned.

 

“ _What on earth_ is that for, then?” 

The voice lilts with sarcasm, and it clicks in her mind. She hadn’t seen him in nearly five years, and his hair was cut a lot shorter and attractively tousled, and his clothes were fashionable, although he still wore the snakeskin shoes. 

 

“Crowley?!?”

 

“Shhh.” His finger flew to his lips as he shushed her. “Susan Tyrrell, wasn’t it? The one with the roses?”

 

“What on earth are you doing in my kitchen!? And at this ungodly hour, no less!”

 

His eyebrow raised. “Ungodly is kinda my whole gig. Keep it down. How’s the garden?”

 

She shook her head. “Fine. Got a koi pond now. Answer the question.”

 

“Well...” he rubbed at the back of his neck, reclining against the side of the counter as if he owned the place. “This was the first place I thought of on short notice. I might've been  chased down the phone line by an angry Duke of Hell; my good old mate Hastur was mad about what happened to his pal Ligur.”

 

Susan’s grip on the knife did not waver. “And what happened to Ligur, then?”

 

The demon lowered his sunglasses to peer at her with serpentine eyes. 

 

“Ohh...” The glassy and over-alert gaze swept lazily over her. And Crowley smiled cockily, too sharp to be human, with a flash of fangs at the edges. “I did.” 

 

He shuddered, then, like repressing a sudden and unpleasant realisation. “Melted the bassstard.”

 

“What, all wicked-witch-of-the-west style?”

 

Crowley gulped from his glass. “Yeah. Holy water. Not nice. But it was him or me, sso-“

He shrugged. 

“- I did what I had to.”

 

Susan stared at him. “Crowley, are you  _drunk_ ?”

 

He nodded. 

 

“And where is the angry Duke now?” Susan near-yelled, hand tightening on the knife. 

 

He tossed his phone; ultra-slim, the latest IPhone model; at her, and she fumbled and nearly dropped it. 

 

“Hastur? He’s trapped. In here. He alwayss falls for the sssame trick.” He shook his head. “I tell you, fourteenth century mindsss, the lot of ‘em.”

 

She paled and threw the phone back at him, shuffling over towards the kettle and flicking it on and busying himself with making a coffee. 

 

“So, how’s the angel? Azira- _Azirathing_ , or whatever his name was.”

 

Crowley sat down at the table, conjuring a steaming mug of coffee with a wave of his hand. 

 

“His bookshop burned down.” Said Crowley, half-mournfully and three-quarters drunkenly flippant. “We both nearly got killed. Saved the world and all of humanity from Armageddon. The usual.”

 

Susan turned, only half-hearing, back to the kettle, and when she looked back, Crowley was gone. His empty water glass lay on the draining-board, clean and gleaming. 


End file.
